


Guillotine

by Pixel Cat (Pixel_Cat)



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Manipulation, M/M, Pre-Slash, Time Travel, Tuckington - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-11
Updated: 2017-11-11
Packaged: 2019-01-31 16:55:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12686244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pixel_Cat/pseuds/Pixel%20Cat
Summary: For Tucker, the world ended with a bang rather than a whimper.A Time Travel AU because I feel like this fandom needs more.





	Guillotine

     It all goes down so fast that Tucker’s brain can’t keep up with what's going on around him. His entire universe narrows down to two things. His stomach and the knife that’s piercing it viciously. It sinks in deeply and settles within his body for what feels like an eternity before it twists as it’s yanked out. For a brief moment, Tucker doesn’t feel anything. And then in the next, he feels everything. He feels heat scorching at the torn wound as he collapses to the ground. And all the while his nerves are screaming about how his body shouldn’t have a fucking hole in it and what the fuck is going on. Across from him, Tucker can see Felix with his stupid fucking armor and Tucker can imagine the fury on the asshole’s face.

 

     But Church was streaming his recording of Felix’s confession. Everyone was seeing Felix’s true colors and Tucker was feeling a strange sort of vindication from it because he  _ knew _ that there was something wrong with Felix, ever since that shit back at the base before they got separated from Wash and the other Reds. Ever since that mission where one of Tucker’s men died and Felix had acted...not strangely, but almost maliciously. Unfeeling. The only shame about it was that Tucker probably wasn’t going to live through the gaping hole in his body to see the orange and black armored asshole get what he deserved.

 

     And damn was Tucker starting to feel cold. The ground beneath him didn’t feel stable, and it was almost like he was floating on a cloud with a frost starting to settle in his bones. From his stomach and outwards, the cold was creeping further and further along his body. And with the cold came a deep exhaustion. It was the blood loss, his brain supplied helpfully as he woozily tried to feel for the wound. When you lose too much blood, you start to get weak. Slow. Cold. _Dead_.

 

     “Damn it, Tucker! What the fuck?!” Church screamed as he appeared before Tucker’s helmet. His holographic body was phasing in and out of existence, like the screen of a broken tv with bursts of static crackling in and out of focus. “You getting stabbed wasn’t a part of the plan, dipshit!”

 

     “I know.” Tucker choked out with a weak chuckle. “But I’m used to stabbing. Bow chicka-bow-wow.”

 

     “Holy shit,” Church screeched, “I cannot fucking believe that you just fucking said that. You are fucking dying, Tucker. The knife was in way too fucking deep, and your vitals are all over the fucking place and-”

 

     “Hey, Church.” Tucker interrupted before the AI could go any farther. As much as he wanted to listen to his friend lose his shit (though admittedly that wasn’t all too difficult to begin with), the cold feeling was getting worse and he could feel his strength slipping away by the second. If he didn’t say anything meaningful soon, he was going to die right there without leaving behind anything. No thoughts. No letters. Just a bunch of unfulfilled opportunities. He was gonna leave behind nothing. Everything he had kept to himself with the promise of sharing his dreams and goals  _ someday in the future once this war is over _ would be lost forever. So before the AI could reply, Tucker pushes on.

 

     “If you ever find Junior, can you tell him that I’m sorry? Can you tell him that I love him so damn much and that I’m sorry I won’t be able to see him live his life as a fucking badass? And can you tell Grif and Simmons that it’s alright that I’m gone? But please don’t tell Grif that I ate his emergency stash because that fucker would probably spit on my grave and….”

 

     Tucker rambles. He rambles on and on and he doesn’t think he can stop because the strange numbness is finally spreading all over his body. All of his thoughts are trickling out of his head and past his lips as he confesses to Church everything that he secreted away in his head. He tells him about how he actually appreciated Caboose’s stupidly optimistic and friendly charm, and that he thinks Donut’s innuendos are on a masterclass level. He says everything he considers important about everyone he knows, from Sarge to Dr. Gray to Carolina to even  _ Palomo _ and so forth.  And then, in what he knows is going to be his final moments, he gets to Wash.

 

     “Church…..Could you tell Wash that I’m sorry I’m leaving him? I don’t….I don’t want to, damn it, but….I don’t really have a choice here.” He laughs with a wheeze that rattles his insides more than he had thought it would. “Tell him not to blame himself. That asshole is always ready to make everything dramatic. But...tell him that I….I-”

 

     Tucker’s words are halted by a heaving cough that speckles the hand he lifts to smother the motion with in blood. It’s almost over, he thinks to himself dizzily. It’s really happening. Tucker is dying and there’s no doctor conveniently around. No aliens that could perform some life saving ritual or whatever. Nothing is standing in the way between him and his death, and Tucker can’t decide if he’s fucking terrified that he’s gonna die or relieved because the pain is almost over. But he still has something to say. He still has something to push out into the world for more than just himself to know.

 

     “Tell Wash that I want him to live.”

 

     And with that, Tucker’s gone with the sound of Church’s heart wrenching scream ringing in his ears.

 

* * *

 

 

_ “It seems like he’s…..” _

 

_ “Critical condition. Doctor, we….” _

 

_ “Is there anything we can do to stop the bleeding?” _

 

_ “It seems that the wound….” _

 

_ “I think the patient is waking up, nurse, administer more….” _

 

_ “.....successfully sealed and sutured….” _

 

_ “Now all we need is for….” _

 

_ “Consciousness might be regained in a week, but that's….” _

 

_ “This armor….It’s new….We haven’t ever….And this weapon…” _

 

_ “Don’t worry, we’ll question him once he wakes up.” _

 

* * *

 

 

     The first thing that happens when Tucker pries his eyes open is that he gets blinded by bright lights. They sting his sensitive eyes to the point of tears, so he squeezes them shut as he takes note of how he feels. His throat is so dry that he can’t tell if his voice will be normal or hoarse when he speaks. His limbs are all accounted for but weak. None of them move with the same agility and maneuverability as he’s used to, but to be fair, he was stabbed violently so it’s a given that his body is quite a bit fucked up. What he doesn’t expect, however, are the restraints snugly tying down his wrists, ankles, and waist to the infirmary bed.

 

     “Ummm…Dr. Gray, I’m pretty sure this isn’t how doctors are supposed to treat their patients.” Tucker croaks out, wincing at how wrecked his voice sounds. He’s definitely been unconscious for a while by the sound of it. “Dr. Gray?” He calls again. “Where the hell are you?”

 

     There isn’t a response, but Tucker does catch movement from the corner of his eye, so he turns to watch an old man in a pristine lab coat approach him warily. But that made no sense. Everyone on Chorus knew who Tucker was. There was no way that this doctor didn’t recognize him, and now that he thought about it, Tucker was sure that he knew the faces of all the medical personnel on Chorus as well. The fact that this guy was careful in his approach and Tucker didn’t know him set off alarms in his head.

 

    “I’m Dr. Mitchell,” the man replied easily, “I’m the surgeon that operated on your stab wound.”

 

     “Surgeon?” Tucker echoed. This whole situation was definitely bad. The only surgeon that Chorus had was Dr. Gray which meant that Tucker was not back in base. He wasn’t home. “Where am I?”

 

     “I’m afraid I can’t answer that.” Dr. Mitchell said somewhat bashfully. “But my bosses wanted me to ask you questions, if you’re feeling up to it.”

 

    Tucker didn’t respond. He instead opted to watch the surgeon distrustfully. Oblivious to this, the other man continued. “With the severity of your injury and the length of your unconsciousness, I’m only going to ask you some basic questions. Let’s just start with something simple. eh? What is your name?”

 

     Shit. Okay. The doctor wanted to ask him some questions which meant that, for whatever the fucking reason, whoever had him here didn’t know who he was. And in all honesty, that felt like such a load of bullshit considering how fucked the thing with Chorus was. So either this doctor and whoever he worked for were trying to confirm his identity, or they actually had no idea who he was….So what was the best course of action? Shit. He had no goddamn clue because despite how much he denied it, Tucker wasn’t someone who worried too much about the future. That’s why he got himself into so much shit on a regular basis. He wasn’t like Church or Wash, both of whom seemed to plan several moves ahead in dangerous situations like it was just a game of chess.

 

     But Tucker wasn’t either of them. He always said whatever the fuck he wanted to say in the moment, regardless of whether that shit got him his ass handed to him or not. But in strange territory with strange people, he knew that tactic wouldn’t work effectively at all. So instead of saying some insult about how the surgeon’s mom would know his name because she screamed it the night before (despite the fact he was supposedly knocked out for days, but whatever, an insult was an insult), he shot out the first name he could think of.

 

     “Church. My name is Church.”

 

     “...Church?” Dr. Mitchell echoed.  “Is that your first or last name?”

 

     “Just Church.” Tucker repeated and then mentally kicked himself almost immediately afterwards. Oh great. Of all the names he could have used, he went with his dead-ghost-but-not-really-just-an-AI best friend’s. Tucker really was a basket case sometimes. After all this time he spent being pissed at Church (or Epsilon or whoever the fuck he was), he was still the first person Tucker looked to for help. Or, at least, used to look to for help before shit hit the fan in Blood Gulch with the remnants of Project Freelancer and everything else that fell into pieces later on.

 

     “Alrighty then, just Church,” the doctor joked, “where did you get that stab wound? You were quite lucky that it didn’t penetrate your stomach any further than it did. Anymore damage could've leaked gastric acid onto your organs coupled with extensive blood loss. And that would’ve certainly killed you.”

 

     “There was a fight.” Tucker said as nonchalantly as possible. “I didn’t agree with someone and he pulled a knife on me. Nothing more than your average crazy asshole. I passed out and I woke up here.”

 

     “A fight, huh. And you woke up here...” Dr. Mitchell hummed. “Well then, Church, forgive me, but I’m disinclined to believe you.”

 

     “What?” Tucker said incredulously. “Why? That’s the truth.”

 

     “I’m sure it is, Church.” Dr. Mitchell smoothed. “But we have video evidence that shows quite the opposite. You see, someone just found you in a corridor here. And after the security team reviewed the footage from the surveillance cameras, they discovered that you just happened to….” The man paused, his face thoughtful as he seemed to struggle for a word. “....pop into existence in front of the person who brought you to the emergency infirmary.”

 

     Tucker stared at him. “What the fuck do you mean by  _ pop _ ?”

 

     “Exactly that. One moment, there’s no one in the hallway. In the next frame, you’re there bleeding in a heap on the ground. Almost like magic really.” The doctor finished with a lame chuckle.

 

     “Dr. Mitchell,” Tucker began calmly, “ _ where the fucking hell am I? _ ”

 

     “I’m afraid I can’t tell you that, Church.” The doctor said regretfully. And as much as Tucker appreciated the way the other man looked at him like a person (like he gave a shit about Tucker even though they were strangers), that was not what he wanted to hear at the moment. He’d rather learn his location than have the pity of some fucking random ass dude in an infirmary room that was steadily beginning to look creepier by the second. “But,” Dr. Mitchell continued, “now that-”

 

     “Now, now, Doctor.” A smooth voice interrupted. “I applaud you for following my orders so loyally, but I believe the secrecy is no longer necessary with our guest here.”

 

     Tucker dragged his gaze off of the now clearly distressed surgeon to look in the direction that the voice came from. And there, standing just in front of the doorway with hands clasped behind his back, is a man that looks so eerily like Church whenever the guy (the AI, his brain adds in unhelpfully) took off his armor when they drank back in their base in Blood Gulch. No. The man looks almost exactly like Church, maybe just a few years or so older. Like how Church would’ve looked like if he had aged. The same dark hair, albeit this man’s hair was streaked with some gray. The same bright green eyes. The same glasses. Near replicas, he thought to himself in panic.

 

     No shit they looked the same. Church,  _ his _ Church, was an AI based off of this man. The real Leonard L. Church. The man behind all that shit with Project Freelancer, Carolina, Washington, and Texas. The man who ruined everything in the pursuit of someone he lost and could never have again. The manipulations. The mind games. The sacrifices. It was all because of the man standing before him, and Tucker was struck entirely speechless by this revelation unfolding in his brain.

 

     “You’re the Director, aren’t you?” Tucker spits before he can get a grip on himself. “You’re the one who fucked everything up! Project Freelancer and-”

 

     “Now, boy, if I were you, I’d stop talking right now.” The Director drawls before Tucker can finish his tirade. “Or else you might not like the consequences.”

 

     With the icily direct promise of violence, Tucker’s mouth snaps shut without a sound. His entire body is tight with tension even with the distance between him and the Director. But Tucker isn’t a moron, he knows a threat when he hears one. And from what Carolina and Wash had told him, the Director wasn’t someone that Tucker’s usual insults and sarcasm would phase. In fact, it’d probably only make the fucking monster throw him into a cell to never see the light of day.

 

     At Tucker’s obedience, the man continues. “I don’t know who you are or how you get here. But you better start talking now. The existence of Project Freelancer isn’t privy to the general public, and my identity is not common knowledge either. So tell me,  _ Church _ ,” the Director says sharply, “you’re going to tell me who you really are. You’re going to tell me how you got here. You’re going to tell me how you know who I am, why you thought you could get away with using my name, and how you know about Project Freelancer. Or else.”

 

     Although Tucker knows he isn’t in a position to give the Director shit, he can’t help himself from shooting back a smart ass response. “Or else what?” He taunts remorselessly as a plan began to take root in his thoughts. He’s shocked by the brilliance of it. He wasted time thinking that the Director had one up on him, but Tucker could easily turn the tables back into his own favor. “You’re gonna kill me? Because if so, newsflash, asshole. I  _ know _ you can’t.”

 

     “Is that so?” The Director’s eyebrows raise in challenge. “Do tell me why.”

 

     “Because you can’t afford to,  _ Director _ .” Tucker says tauntingly in a way that makes the blood in his veins boil as he thinks about what a piece of shit the man before him is. “First of all, you don’t know who I am. I bet you made all your best techies try to find out my identity, but since you’re here with me right now, you still don’t know.  Secondly, you don’t know how I got here. If you kill me, it doesn’t guarantee that others won’t just  _ pop _ up here randomly, which compromises your security. With me dead, there would be no way for you to know how I got here or if others could do the same in the future.”

 

     The Director didn’t make any attempt to contradict Tucker, and emboldened by this, he trudges on. “Thirdly, you can’t afford to kill me because I know your name and your face, and all the actions connected to them. Sure, killing me would ensure that I don’t rat you out to anyone else, but it also means that you can’t ensure that other people don’t have the same intel as I do. Your reputation would be in danger either way. And lastly, you can’t kill me because you don’t know how much I know about Project Freelancer.”

 

“And let me tell you,  _ Director _ ,” Tucker snarls angrily, “I know quite a lot about your little pet project. So what? Still gonna threaten me with permanent silence, you fucking asshole?”

 

     The room is quiet once Tucker finished his retorts, and for a brief second, he thinks that he won. He, Lavernius Tucker, just schooled the fucking Director of Project Freelancer about how utterly fucked the other man was. But before he can relish in his victory, the Director walked up to Tucker, closer and closer until he’s right by Tucker’s side. The other man’s green eyes bore into Tucker’s own blue ones, and the sheer intensity in the Director’s gaze makes a chill slither down Tucker’s spine and settle into his bones.

 

     “Those are all valid points,” The Director says measuredly, “but you’re forgetting something, my boy. Would you like to know what it is?”

 

      Tucker doesn’t say anything, already feeling uncomfortable with the man’s proximity and even tone. With his skin prickling, Tucker doesn’t believe that his burst of confidence and aggression was the smartest move. He should’ve just kept his goddamn mouth shut. He curses at himself for being so emotional. If he had reined in his feelings better, this would’ve gone a completely different way. Instead, he’s laid out feeling like he’s treading on thin ice.

 

     As the Director leans down, he grabs Tucker’s chin and forces him to maintain eye contact as he says, “I don’t care about what you know. If I wanted you dead, you’d be dead. I don’t care about what information you could be holding in that head of yours. And blackmail doesn’t work. So if I were you, I’d just answer my questions. Or else things might get a little rough for you. And though I won’t kill you, I have plenty of ways to make you wish I did. And  _ that  _ is a promise.”

 

     “So let’s try this again.” The man smiles as he pulls away from Tucker. “What’s your name?”

 

     “.....Lavernius Tucker.”

 

     “How did you get here?”

 

     “I don’t know.”

 

     “You don’t know?” The Director questions. 

 

     “I said I don’t fucking know!” Tucker explodes. “I got fucking stabbed, okay? I thought I was going to fucking die. I think I did die! But then I woke up here, no one else I know is here, but Dr. Mitchell and you are! So to fucking summarize, no. I don’t fucking know! Is that answer satisfactory enough for you, you goddamn-”

 

     “Quiet, Lavernius.” The Director says before Tucker can finish his outburst. “So you don’t know how you got here and I don’t know how you got here. Do you see how this is a problem for you? But considering that you were unconscious at the time of your appearance, I won’t push for more than that.” The  _ for now _ is left unsaid but still hangs in the air as the man continues speaking. “But what I do want to know is how you know about me and what Project Freelancer is. And don’t leave anything out.”

 

     “Oh geez,” Tucker starts with sarcasm dripping off of every word, “what do I know? I know that your name is Leonard L. Church. You’re in charge of Project Freelancer. You have a daughter that you used to manipulate and push to be perfect, and a wife that’s been dead for so long that you’ve done a lot of batshit crazy things to bring her back to life. Like create artificial intelligences. And as a result, you fucking ruined everyone you came into contact with because of your goddamn selfish desires. God, you’re-”

 

     “I hate to interrupt your story, Lavernius,” The Director says with a strange light in his eyes. “But tell me, do you know the names of the agents in Project Freelancer? And do keep in mind that your answer is mandatory.”

 

     “The agents?” Tucker echoes as he wracks through the scant memories he has of past conversations he’s had with Carolina and Washington, and his encounters with Maine, Connecticut, and Wyoming. “There’s Carolina, Washington, Maine, Connecticut, Wyoming, York, North and South Dakota, and Texas. And I guess some more, but I can’t remember their names.”

 

     “Texas, huh?” The Director murmurs. “I haven’t assigned an Agent Texas to duty yet.”

 

     “What?” Tucker chokes as confusion and dread starts to bubble beneath his skin. “What the fuck? What do you mean there isn’t a Texas yet? She’s the AI of your fucking wife, Director. What do you mean-”

 

     “Tucker, what year is it?” The Director cuts in calmly, but the way his eyes seem to glow brightly says the opposite. “What year is it?”

 

     “Umm, it’s the year...” And just before he finishes speaking, realization dawns on Tucker. There isn’t an Agent Texas, and the Director not knowing about her is impossible. She was a vital part of how Project Freelancer fell apart, and in all of Carolina’s and Wash’s retellings of their past, the Director had always outwardly favored and praised Texas in front of the other agents. So if the Director has no idea what he’s talking about, then it means that Tucker is….

 

     “....fuck.” Tucker whispers and then says it louder, nearly screaming. “FUCK!”

 

     “...I see you’ve come to the same conclusion as I have, Lavernius.” The Director says.

 

     “But it’s impossible,” Tucker chokes out, “how the fuck did I end up in the past?! I got fucking stabbed, you asshole! I was dying!  I have to be dead! There’s no way...There’s no fucking way! I can’t….This can’t be happening!”

 

     “Well, Lavernius, look on the bright side.” The Director says with a strange smile twisting across his face, green eyes sharp and analytical. “You’ve convinced me that you’re of more use to me alive than dead.”

 

     Trapped in a room with the man who singlehandedly ruined the lives of people that he cared for deeply, Tucker isn’t sure there’s a bright side at all. If he was dead, at least everything would be over. But instead he’s stuck in the past, separated from his son and the friends he’s come to regard as family, and he has no clue if even he can even get back to his time and he’s….

 

     For the first time in his entire life, Tucker is alone.

 

    Alone.

 

     The knowledge settles in his chest heavily, pulling him down and down until he feels like he’s sunken to the floor and is still falling. The carpet’s been snatched up from beneath him and all he can do is fall, let gravity takes its course. But the pressure is suffocating, and Tucker can’t breathe. He can’t breathe and his heartbeat is pounding in his ears. Thud. Thudthud. Thudthudthudthudthudthud. The sound is deafening and he can’t hear anything over the sound of his heart going haywire as the depth of his situation continues to sink in. Tucker will probably never see Junior again, his beautiful and kind son that kicks ass at school and sports and is gonna unite the sangheili and human species someday. He’ll never get to make fun of Caboose or yell at him for accidentally breaking shit around the base. He’ll never get to see if Grif and Simmons are actually a thing and give them shit for how long it took them to get their heads out of their asses. He’ll never get to see Sarge, Lopez, Donut, or anybody else that he’s come to begrudgingly appreciate and care for. He’ll never get to see Wash and his perfect fucking face and his gorgeous freckles again….

 

     But he will, Tucker thinks as another revelation smacks into him like the butt of a gun across his temple.

 

     He’ll get to see Wash and Carolina in the past, but he won’t get to see  _ his _ Wash and Carolina. The two freelancers who somehow ended up in their group and stuck around despite their idiocy and incompetence in everything. They stuck around and became a family. Carolina with her rough around the edges personality, tough love, and steady commanding presence on the battlefield. The soldier who, despite how much she loathed weakness in any fashion, enjoyed watching romantic comedies with Tucker and Donut after hours on Chorus and threatened to murder them both if they breathed a word of it to anybody. 

 

     And Wash….Tucker won’t ever see the beautiful but broken man who’s become such a large part of his life as an individual and as a member of the blue team. And while Tucker doesn’t quite have a word for what he feels for Wash, he admits that it’s powerful. Because Tucker loves Wash’s dry as a desert humor, his annoying persistence that Tucker keep up his killer training regime, the way that the blond dumped spoonful after spoonful of sugar into his morning coffee until it was more sugar than coffee, and the sincerity and concern in his gray eyes as he asks Tucker if he’s feeling fine or if he’s still torn about Church (even though Tucker would immediately get defensive and claim that Epsilon was Church despite the sad look on Wash’s face when he thinks that Tucker doesn’t understand that Epsilon isn’t Alpha, who was the version of Church that Tucker actually befriended. And yes, he knew. Tucker fucking knew, but pretending that he didn’t was easier than admitting that his original friend was really gone and just….fuck. Fuck. Epsilon was a part of Alpha, and that was good enough for Tucker).

 

     “LAVERNIUS!”

 

     The shout of Tucker’s name shatters the despair that’s been suffocating him and weighing him down. He sucks air back into his lungs and feels dizzy as his head begins to spin. Instead of refocusing his attention to Dr. Mitchell and the Director, who are observing him with carefully blanked faces, Tucker brings his attention to breathing. In and out. In and out. He repeats this mantra in his head as he forcibly goes through the motions, thinking about how he used to do the same for Junior back when they were together and the kid would get nightmares. It takes a few painstaking minutes to compose himself after his meltdown, and even though he’s breathing normally, the despair is still present. Just dampened and contained within the pit of stomach. Laying in wait for the next time that Tucker loses it. 

 

     It’s already building back up, but he doesn’t have time to worry about it right now with the way that the Director is looking at him now. His face is still schooled into a neutral expression, but his eyes are still incredibly revealing. He looks completely fascinated with Tucker, and not even in the good way, he jokes half-heartedly to himself. The Director looks at Tucker like he’s something to take apart into pieces just so he can figure out what makes him tick. It’s a dangerous sort of look that promises Tucker that the man isn’t just gonna let him go, even if a small part of him naively hopes that the Director will leave him alone. No, if anything, those intelligent eyes are guaranteeing that Tucker will never get away. Not from the Director, not from Project Freelancer, and not from the past that Tucker is sure that he’s screwing up just with his presence.

 

     “Lavernius,” The Director starts, perfectly composed, “the good doctor here has informed me that he believes you’ve recovered enough to leave the infirmary. And I’m feeling generous enough to give you access to some of the areas on the Mother of Invention on one condition.”

 

     “What?” Tucker tries to spit venomously, but his earlier outburst has taken all of the emotion right out of him, so he just sounds tired. “....What the fuck more do you want?”

 

     “Why, Lavernius,” The Director responds without hesitation, “I want your loyalty. I want your knowledge. I want everything you have to offer about the future. And in exchange, I don’t kill you and I provide you all that you could want aboard the Mother of Invention. Wealth, shelter, a purpose. Lavernius, we could change the world for the better. What do you say to that?”

 

     To that, Tucker looks at the Director and says the words that have been bouncing around the back of his mind with conviction as soon as the dark haired man extended his offer.

 

     “Go fuck yourself.”

  
  


* * *

 

 

     As it turns out, telling the Director to go fuck himself only results in Tucker getting dragged out of the infirmary and tossed into an isolation cell that’s only furnishings are a shitty cot on one end of the tiny room and a shitty toilet in the other. For a while, it’s fine. Tucker is, surprisingly, actually used to being completely alone for a long period of time. He easily entertains himself with movies and tv shows he can recount from his memories. And when he runs out of those, he switches to remembering the vast amount of pornos he’s watched in his lifetime (which is more than enough to keep him occupied mentally, but doesn't get him horny at all. Knowing how controlling the Director was, there’s probably some security cams hidden somewhere in this tiny ass cell and he doesn’t want to give the assholes watching him a free show). And once he runs out of those, he thinks back on the memories he’s built with his friends. He remembers the time he and Caboose set the kitchen in Blood Gulch on fire and Church spent hours yelling at them for being fucking morons. And the time he sat and watched Game of Thrones with Grif and Simmons while Sarge was on a mechanical binge. Or the time he and Donut drank a shit ton of booze because they could. He even thinks back to the first time he met Washington, and the first time he met  _ Wash _ (because there’s a difference between the man who was hunting down his old friends with the Meta, and then the man who drools in his sleep and has the fluffiest blond hair in the morning when he walks into the kitchen on Chorus for a cup of coffee).

 

     Tucker runs out of memories sometime after what he thinks has been three days. And after that point, hours seems to bleed together until he’s lost all sense of time. Night and day. Hour and minute. Every second is starting to feel like an eternity when he's staring at the same white ceiling in the same white room with the same white bed with the same white toilet. Tucker is going fucking insane because it feels like torture in this room. All on his own without any sort of stimuli, he feels like he’s wasting away like a zombie. He doesn’t even leave his cot unless he direly needs to use the toilet. But since no one’s been sending him food or water, Tucker’s been leaving his bed less and less. He’s exhausted, dehydrated, and starving. The walls are closing in on him by the second, and Tucker will literally start screaming his head off from the sheer insanity of it all. Goddamn it. He did not want to go crazy. He did not want to go crazy trapped in this fucking room. But...What could he do? He already checked his surroundings for a way out, and there was absolutely nothing he could use to break out. Nothing. So instead of wasting his energy trying to escape, Tucker resigned himself to sprawling out on his cot. With his eyes closed and his breathing evening, all he could was lay around in wait for something to change.

 

     And something does change when the door to his cell hisses as it slides open and the Director steps into the room, just as tall and intimidating as he had looked when Tucker first laid eyes on him. “So,” Tucker says dryly, “is that really you or am I finally hallucinating?”

 

     “You’re not hallucinating, Lavernius.”

 

     “Does that mean that you’re finally letting me out?”

 

     “Only if you behave.”

 

     As defiant as Tucker wanted to be, he knew he couldn’t handle being locked away again. He’d die if that happened. And….Although his entire life in the future was most likely going to be destroyed because of his presence in the past, Tucker figured to hell with it. He doesn't wanna help the fucking asshole if he can avoid it, but hell if he was gonna sit back and let the Director break Wash and Carolina and the rest of the freelancers apart again. Not if he could somehow stop it. And if he did stop it, then maybe the others wouldn’t be as broken as they are in the future. Maybe they’d be happy? Everyone except him and Junior. Without the crazy adventures the Reds and Blues go on, Tex, and everything else, Tucker isn’t sure that his son will be born anymore. Not if he changes everything, which won't guarantee him a future with Junior. But the sangheili did consider Tucker to be a part of a prophecy, and as far as Tucker knew about destiny from pop culture, it always had a way of happening no matter the odds. So instead, Tucker decided to pray to whatever was out there (if there was even anything out there) that somehow Junior will exist in whatever future he’s gonna make by fucking about with the Director and the Freelancers.

 

     “You have my word.” Tucker promises despite how sour the words taste on his tongue.

 

     “Good. You made the right choice, Lavernius. Now let’s leave this place. You have to prepare.” The green eyed man smiled.

 

     “Prepare for what?” Tucker says, trying to bite back his obvious impatience and annoyance with the Director.

 

     “For meeting the agents.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not exactly the best writer or the most knowledgeable of the RvB fans, so I'm sorry if there's inconsistencies with canon or mistakes with spelling/grammar. I'm mostly writing this b/c I like the idea of Tucker time traveling to the time before PFL's destruction. Also I fucking love Tuckington. Not sure where this'll go, but I hope you guys enjoy it.  
> -Pixel.


End file.
